


Entangled

by levitatethis



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Reality, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-18
Updated: 2010-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:21:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the future Mohinder and Sylar have a tentative friendship, but the past proves difficult to live with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Entangled

**Author's Note:**

> Written for greyelveneyes' prompt: "His shirt smelled like smoke"

_“And it’s you I see   
But you don’t see me   
And it’s you I hear   
So loud and so clear"_   
**-Coldplay, _Shiver_   
**

There are too many versions of Gabriel. Each incarnation comes with a precise set of laws that rule the man they are bound to. Depending on the motivation behind each “recreation”, those laws can be fascinating or suffocating.

It has been three years since Danko tried to control the beast and puppet master his existence, nearly causing a permanent cerebral split in the process. Worse, it has been two years since the sordid attempt to turn him into Nathan Petrelli (notably dead by his same murderous hands) was accidentally thwarted by Peter and Mohinder’s relentless need to answer persistent questions that gnawed and prodded them out of complacency.

Those versions, ordered and forced, stoked a resistant wrath in Gabriel that was hell-bent on calculated vengeance. It was too distracted and more selfishly encompassing than stability allowed. The discovery that Nathan was really Gabriel was explosive. Mohinder fought to hold onto Peter as he struck out at the last remnants of the Petrelli clan by way of Angela, as much a figurehead as a cunning player. They both tried to contain Gabriel, overwhelmed by the non-consensual assault on his mind, as he reworked his arsenal of dormant powers to lash out a biblical punishment at those who dared to bring him down.

It wasn’t that Peter and Mohinder believed Gabriel’s past sins were suddenly wiped clean but rather that two wrongs did not make a right and what was done to him was the beginning of a slippery moral slope that threatened to destroy them all. One evil simply transplanted another, shifting Sylar to one side and Angela, Bennet and Matt to another, and a new priority rose to the top for the time being.

Bennet slipped underground not long after Claire, angry in disgusted disappointment, tore free from his familial grip to start a new life with her mom and Lyle. At the same time, verification of Matt’s reluctant involvement (possibly one of the few selfless acts Bennet could grant) spared him Mohinder and Peter’s permanent distrust but the friendships were ultimately strained.

Gabriel disappeared in a manner of speaking. Torturous payback was drawn out as he stayed off the grid for weeks at time only to touch base with Peter (at Gabriel’s own discretion) in some strange and undefined peace accord between them during which they lay down arms.

Those meetings (as detailed by Peter to Mohinder) are all tactical discussions and chess-like maneuvers to keep the new Company on notice and on edge. By comparison, the times that Gabriel shows up at Mohinder’s apartment or lab (Peter had helped put in a good word for him to work at the university, an undertaking helped by Mohinder’s past position at the university in Chennai) strike a (disturbingly) personal tone.

Maybe it is because it is _Sylar_ who visits him.

He is the version of Gabriel that Mohinder most (sickeningly) prefers because he knows it like a bout of déjà vu. He cannot predict each action but he is not as easily put off by the incessant power play that dogs their every interaction. With him Sylar is all glares and smirks, pointed comments, touchy taunts and wondering contemplations. It is Montana to New York in a heartbeat all over again.

He silently watches Mohinder with narrowed eyes while Mohinder argues a point or distractedly focuses on an experiment or makes dinner. Sylar walks around him like the rooms they inhabit were meant to house them together. He pushes closer into Mohinder’s space then steps back, all to inflict discomfort while simultaneously reinforcing their tense familiarity. It keeps them both on their toes.

Mohinder would be a liar if he said he did not like arguing with Sylar. Debating is as apt a term and it is a default setting for them. But for all the antagonism that naturally flows from one to the next and back again there are also calm ruminations that almost border on confessionals complete with metaphoric shoulders to lean on while they sit side-by-side on the sofa or stand across from each other in the tight space of the fire escape. Their hours together may be passed off as little more than game play discernments meant to make a point but there resides an inflection of inevitability at the core which they are both curious and (not so dispassionately) resigned to.

Mohinder gives little thought for why he shares only the most general accounts of those visits with Peter. He could convince himself it is to not burden his friend with needless worries but it is just as likely his attempt to keep a piece of Sylar all for himself, as a reminder of a connection that was (once) real and welcoming, no matter if it was more a ruse than authentic. As far as Mohinder’s tempestuous feelings are concerned it was real. Sylar, on the other hand, is a confused and rich testing ground of untapped emotions and sharp sentiments.

More often than not Sylar shows up when he is in the midst of sorting his own mess of a mind out. A patchwork state of the nonsensical, it extends beyond accumulating new abilities and righting perceived wrongs. In fact it is such an odd (and compelling) portrayal of vulnerability that it stays with Mohinder during the weeks and months when Sylar is unapologetically and vigorously on the run with his own roguish battle plans and Peter is trying to pull the reins.

Sylar’s visits come with an unstated purpose, but one that is not always clear. Mohinder treads carefully but never throws up his arms or backs down. They have come too far for that.

 

************ ********** ********** ********** **********   
**

It is a warm summer night (the perfect remedy to the blistering hot day) and Mohinder arrives home much later than usual. His mind is spinning after having to run a series of tests two more times when the first experiment revealed a blood anomaly between two specific Specials from different parts of the country with seemingly no biological ties. The suggestion of a possible ancestral connection involving patterned migration is exciting but Mohinder does not want to jump the gun.

Calling it a night (although professionally speaking it is a forced break so that he doesn’t accidentally screw up his work) he arrives home with a light quickness in his step and a conspiratorial smile on his face directed at the universe. Unfortunately giddy amusement only lasts until he is through the door (slamming it behind him) and five steps towards the living room.

Sylar is standing by the window, leaning forward with his right arm braced against the wall and his left one pressed palm down on the glass. Decked out in his trademark black t-shirt and pants he is the sight of the shadowy boogieman come to life, enough so that Mohinder startles and sucks in a sharp breath before muttering a quiet admonishment.

Dropping his shoulder bag to the floor and tossing his keys behind him onto the kitchen table, Mohinder says, “Being able to break into my apartment is not an invitation to do so.”

Sylar does not turn around. The rigid lines of his shoulders and slight bow of his head forward indicate a nondescript emotional weight pressing down on him that he is fighting to keep in check. Mohinder takes a tentative step closer. Despite Sylar’s predilections for excessive violence and forceful demands, Mohinder finds his silent commandeering of a room most worrisome. Without understanding the context for it, Mohinder understands the distinct disadvantage he is at, not knowing if Sylar is here to seek help or call him out for something. Mohinder is tempted to breach the silence but he takes a cue from Sylar’s controlled body language and stops next to the sofa, waiting.

After a few long seconds Sylar clears his throat. “For so long I wanted to get out of the life I was living. I felt stuck in it, resigned to it. But afterwards…”

He turns to cast dark eyes on Mohinder. “It’s funny the places you find yourself returning to like a compulsion.”

Mohinder narrows his eyes inquisitively and folds his arms across his chest. The tough edge to Sylar’s voice raises the hair on the back of his neck but he makes sure to maintain eye contact instead of busying himself with the distraction of pretending to clean up the apartment in a bid of avoidance. Sylar’s unblinking stare is an unnerving challenge. Mohinder considers if it is the apartment and all that transpired between Gabriel and Chandra, then Mohinder (and Peter, Molly, Maya) that has put him in a flummoxed state.

Sylar thrusts his hands in his pant pockets and says (almost nonchalantly), “I went back to the place where I died.”

“Which time?” Mohinder retorts flippantly, without thinking, to mask nervousness.

Sylar rolls his eyes and clicks his tongue in annoyance, stepping forward. “The one that matters.”

The answer itself actually does little to clarify anything. All of Sylar’s “deaths” carry significance, each one acting as the end of one chapter and beginning of another. In this case something in particular is knocking around in Sylar’s head, bringing a strange combative mood to the surface, and Mohinder feels suddenly under the microscope. It would be too easy to falter now and allow Sylar full control of the situation. That is not the way they play.

“Is that right?” Mohinder keeps his reply casual. “You’ll have to refresh my memory.”

A small twitch of a smirk tips up the corner of Sylar’s mouth and he pulls it back into place, settling a stern expression on his face. “So coy. As if you’d forget the funeral pyre.”

Mohinder fists his hands against his chest and his stomach tightens as he realizes this is one of _those_ discussions, the one they rarely get into besides a passing remark here and there. Now it reeks of urgency. The image of Sylar’s body surrounded by flames, engulfed by what was a fitting hellfire are the time, is etched in Mohinder’s brain for reasons too conflicting and revealing to deal with. The mere mention of it makes the image explode in technicolour and a rush of thoughts nearly short circuit his brain.

In a wayward attempt to keep the focus on Sylar, Mohinder asks, “What reason could you possibly have for going there? I never figured you as a glutton for punishment.”

Sylar raises an eyebrow and sets his attention on the bookshelves to his right, walking over and eyeing the titles. He telekinetically tips one book out of place then pulls it out the old fashioned way. Turning around he flips the pages and meets Mohinder’s gaze. “Sometimes a reminder is necessary to move forward.” He slams the book shut with one hand.

Mohinder glances down at the book as Sylar holds up the cover to him (and he sees it is Kahlil Gibran’s, The Prophet) then telekinetically puts it back in place while renegotiating the space between them.

“Are you remembering or dwelling?” Mohinder takes a half step back before realizing the submissiveness of the gesture and shifts forward again. The tiny pull at the corner of Sylar’s left eye tells him the move did not go unnoticed.

“Gaining much needed perspective,” Sylar replies tersely.

“And what profound realization did you come to?” Mohinder’s mind races with the myriad of possibilities for Sylar’s visit complete with abrupt behaviour.

“That a good memory is invaluable.”

Mohinder pauses thoughtfully at the spin on the literary quote. “I believe you mean that a good memory is unpardonable.”

“Do you really want to wish that’s the case?”

And like that Mohinder finds himself at the heart of whatever is consuming Sylar. A string of words hesitates a frontal assault on his tongue and he pulls his lips tight as he tries to refocus his thoughts. He channels the fact that they are in _his_ apartment and that they have managed cordial conversations before into a now unwavering stance. Jutting his face forward he says, “You’re quick with the attitude considering you showed up in _my_ place. How about you get to the point?”

“Can’t I visit a _friend_?” Sylar poses the sketchy question with a forward tilt of his head and Mohinder immediately latches onto the strange emphasis on the word ‘friend’.

It is not a word that has ever been spoken aloud between them and their shared history is a good reason as to why. Yet the oddness of their increasing time together and the level of ‘getting each other’ that clicks brings implications not addressed but certainly apparent. To verbalize it only crashes a disturbing reality into their precarious world. It is at once an acknowledgement of what has changed and a taunt of why it remains elusive.

Mohinder scoffs. “When have you ever taken to purely social visits? You’re here to have it out with me over something, but until you tell me—,”

“How could you stand by and let it happen?”

_Let what happen?_ Mohinder thinks fast.

Sylar closes the space between them and lowers his voice. “_You_ watched it happen. Stood by then walked away and never looked back. Not until Peter couldn’t ignore the truth anymore. Was it that easy for you?”

“Have you forgotten everything you’ve done?” Mohinder insists but it is a lost argument from the get go. Sylar is not asking for an explanation about why they burned what was presumed to be his body out in the desert. He is not questioning their collective motives for wanting to end him once and for all. Sylar is demanding Mohinder explain _himself_ as if he resides within a different perimeter of expectations.

Flattering and frustrating as it is, that has always been the case. Sylar holds him to a different standard than everyone else and although that has unexpectedly been the cause of him sparing Mohinder’s life it also puts him under an uncomfortable spotlight.

“No.” Sylar’s reply is quick and accompanied by a shake of his head and a knitted brow. His firm assertion is startlingly self-aware and Mohinder’s firm footing slips. “Have you?”

This time Mohinder does walk away to avoid what is turning into an interrogation. He feels Sylar’s eyes burning into his back as he walks to the kitchen sink and pours himself a glass of water. Sylar’s approaching footsteps echo off the apartment walls giving away his stop next to the kitchen table.

Mohinder holds the glass to his lips, resting it on the bottom one, after he takes a sip. He stares at the wall while his minds eye only sees Sylar behind him. Despite the rhetorical questions being asked, Mohinder’s mind is overcome with answers that are all real, though some are more honest than others. Of course he hasn’t forgotten everything he has done, the good, the bad and the downright ugly, all monstrously intertwined.

Burning Sylar was poetic destruction. It was a farewell to the nightmares that had plagued Mohinder day and night and not just the ones made of blood and brutality, lies and manipulation. It was also the frightening reality that one of the most honest bonds of friendship he has ever felt were with the one man who nearly single-handedly destroyed his life without any regard for the consequences. If fire was death, the ashes were rebirth.

At least they were supposed to be.

Watching the flames rise up around and then across Sylar’s body also spiked an urge in Mohinder to douse the inferno before him and say a proper goodbye filled with heartfelt confessions of melancholy loss and angered betrayal. Surrounded by everyone else, however, he censored himself, denying the much needed absolution not only to let go but to grudgingly accept the truth.

Sylar has lurked in the corners of his mind, at the edges of his periphery vision, ever since.

Mohinder hears Sylar slowly step closer until he is directly behind him, presumably staring down the back of his neck, waiting in anticipation of a blowout. Mohinder ponders the confused honesty that fidgets at the tip of his tongue for release. Will Sylar believe that not a day went by that Mohinder did not think of him, whether in irritation or reminiscent of the few good moments that made coming to America less lonely? Will Sylar grasp the significance of Mohinder still being able to taste the heat from the death flames on his tongue, filling his nose?

At times during their sporadic visits (after Nathan was properly buried away and Sylar stood in his own form) Mohinder could swear his shirt smelled like smoke and it rushed forth every deeply held regret and wish that, now with a second chance possible, only leaves him more uncertain.

Having Sylar put him on the spot and call him out for past behaviour is unfair. He has no idea what Mohinder has suffered through; the self-doubt that wracked each step taken, the vow of silence he imposed as a vow, not even letting Peter in. How dare Sylar purport to know what he has been through.

Mohinder puts the glass in the sink and spins around to give him a piece of his mind. In the rapid action, however, he catches the fleeting look of nervous worry on Sylar’s face before he can transform it into cool detachment. For the first time Mohinder considers why Sylar is judging his actions so harshly.

“What do you want me to say?” Mohinder asks far less belligerently than intended. His tone is more exasperated than angry and he leans back against the counter’s edge, gripping it with his hands on other side. “That I watched your body burn with a certain callous disposition? Because I did. That I took a sick pleasure in finally seeing your life ended? Because I felt that too. Or maybe you want to hear how confused I was? That your death was not the closure it should have been?”

Sylar’s eyes narrow at the words but Mohinder is on too much of a roll re-establishing the power balance to stop now.

Mohinder, still gripping the counter behind him, leans forward and aggressively invades Sylar’s space. “Maybe you want to hear me mope about how screwed up it is that our lives have become so entangled that I can’t imagine mine without you in it some inexplicable way? That’s true too.”

He recognizes the miniscule pull at the corner of Sylar’s left eyes that promises what he is confessing is registering. Mohinder quirks a mocking smile and ridicules, “You think I should have tossed myself on the pyre with you?”

Sylar clenches his jaw. “Hardly.”

A second later, refusing to break the stare between them, Sylar softly drags his right index finger across Mohinder’s shoulder and then down his torso, stopping at the center of Mohinder’s chest. “This isn’t some lovesick lament,” he says and painfully jabs his finger causing Mohinder to grimace.

“It wasn’t even you.” Mohinder tries to diffuse the situation, raising his arms defensively.

“That’s not even close to being the point,” Sylar snaps and turns away, heading back to the table and clutching the top run of one of the chairs in a knuckle-whitening grip. Looking over his right shoulder at Mohinder he says, “I wouldn’t have let that happen to you without a word. I certainly wouldn’t have left your remains for the elements to have their way.”

“Please!” Mohinder wrinkles his brow in disbelief and stands up straight. “You’re hardly an example of respectability or compassion when it comes to death. All the people—,”

“I’m not talking about them. I’m talking about you!” Sylar lifts the chair and slams it against the floor, then turns around to continue their face off.

Mohinder shakes his head and gestures emphatically at Sylar with his right hand. “You’re asking for a rational explanation of the irrational. It’s _not_ black and white. I can’t explain it to you, let alone myself, but you still want to hold me personally responsible—,”

“Your moral _compunction_.” Sylar strides over. “Far more appropriate in defining you than any of that due north dribble they sell you on, that you want so desperately to believe. You _knew_ me—,”

“I knew _nothing_ of you but the scraps of truth you wove in amongst your many lies—,”

“You _knew_ me.” Sylar is clear and concise. “And still your moral code didn’t think to bring me home, to rest at my family’s side.”

“You mean the mother whom you murdered.”

“An accident that has haunted me ever since.”

“And a father who walked out on you both and never looked back.”

“That’s his cross to bear, not mine. Besides, your father wasn’t exactly daddy dearest and still you crossed half the world to take him home, to right the wrongs in the end.”

Unprepared for the raw emotions coursing back and forth, Mohinder breaks away from their battleground and stalks to the living room. Turning around he says in a scathing voice, “And I owed that to you?”

“No, but I expected—,” Sylar slams his mouth shut but the slip of the admission, the revelation of such a human want, takes the wind out of his body and his shoulders slump at the unexpected release. He drops his head forward, hiding his face from Mohinder’s watchful stare, and walks past Mohinder to sit down on the sofa. Sitting forward, he clasps his hands between his parted knees and stares down at them. “In the end a lot of things become clearer.”

He sounds suddenly reverential and it tempers Mohinder’s anger as he slips closer to Sylar and watches him sitting forlornly. Mohinder sticks his hands in his pant pockets and he nervously presses the heels of his shoes against the floor.

Sylar looks up at him with an air of resignation. “It is not some grand delusion on my part. I’ve always been the solitary type. Reveled in it, even. Then you…”

He shakes his head and offers up a broken smile meant as a chastising reprimand against himself for even considering it, then sits back and stares straight ahead at the far wall. He parts his hands and rests them on his thighs. “I shouldn’t have expected to have the one person who…”

Sylar pauses in thought and lines of contemplation deepen across his forehead. “Maybe it was a delusion.”

Mohinder doesn’t realize he has been holding his breath until his exhalation sounds out loud amidst the deafening silence. Sylar’s eyes flit his way (questioningly, curiously) then focus ahead again. Mohinder watches him and looks backwards over his shoulder, unsure of what to do. Looking at Sylar again he self-consciously takes a seat next to him, glancing at the floor briefly, before more obviously directing his attention on him.

“How was I to tell them—Angela, Peter, _Matt_—that you deserved a eulogy?” Mohinder asks quietly and draws Sylar’s surprised attention. “That even with everything you had done, something still needed to be said that spoke of you…all of you. To admit that I—,”

Mohinder looks over the kitchen again the honest admission hangs loosely on his lips. He takes a deep sigh and turns to face Sylar, only to find him watching him contemplatively.

“That we,” he unnecessarily corrects himself, “have been forever changed. If I’d tried it would have been…”

Mohinder rolls his eyes affectionately. “A whole other mess. I said my goodbye in my head.”

“Dismissed and forgotten. Burned out of existence. Not quite the goodbye anybody wants,” Sylar mutters.

“You’re note quite anybody,” Mohinder muses eliciting a small smile from Sylar. He kneads his fingers against his jeans and asks, “Why would you go back there?”

Sylar considers him a moment. “To remember who I was.”

“Why? Are you not the same person?”

“You tell me. You’re the one sitting here instead of trying to drug me.”

Mohinder muffles a smile. “Not for lack of trying. You’ve forced me to get more creative.”

“So I should still be looking over my shoulder?” Sylar says wryly with a tinge of amusement that is at once condescending and admiring. Mohinder supposes it is meant to be flattering; the simple act of considering Mohinder to be that capable, but it also serves as a reminder of the unstable ground upon which they have always stood with or against one another.

“What do you think?” Mohinder asks with a strong dose of irritation in his inflection.

Sylar raises an eyebrow. “That I should expect nothing less.”

Mohinder nods slyly and the two of them sit back and stare at the wall ahead. They share the quiet and Mohinder takes a deep breath while his mind flipbooks through the collage of moments that have brought him to this place, sitting next to Sylar after a bout of conscience and wayward acceptance. It seems unconscionable yet it is a reality nonetheless that shrouds them together.

He glances to his right when he feels the sofa dip and sees Sylar shoving forward to the edge. Sylar catches his eye and rumbles, “Places to be, Mohinder.”

It is a sudden shift in the direction of their argument-turned-conversation and Mohinder is urged to draw their time out further. He would like to think it is to protect whomever Sylar plans on “visiting” but the part of his rationale that he keeps submerged is that he has always liked spending time with Sylar, no matter how odd or horrific the situation. Even when it was life or death there was a draw he felt to Sylar, one that boasted of an intellectual match he never imagined possible.

If it is nuts to weigh the worth behind differing motivations, Mohinder is in no position to judge others. It is precisely why he couldn’t stop forward when Sylar body was being cremated. It is the reason he can never find it in himself to offload the sordid truth to those who he considers friends, like Peter.

When Sylar stands up it snaps Mohinder to attention.

“On an empty stomach?” Mohinder asks.

Sylar looks down at him with a quizzical expression. “Is that a dinner invite?”

“It’s an, ‘I’ve got to eat and you’re here so you might as well have a bite’ invite.” Mohinder stands up.

“I’ve had better offers,” Sylar states flatly.

“Doubtful,” Mohinder counters, curling up a half smile.

“Your flattery is astounding,” Sylar says pursing his lips but his eyes are wide and jovial in contrast. He raises his right hand and points his index finger upwards. “One condition.”

It is Mohinder’s turn to look nonplussed and he folds his arms across his chest. “And that would be?”

“I’ll cook,” Sylar replies. As he steps by Mohinder he pauses and leans closer, speaking in a low tone against his left ear. “I don’t trust you with my food.”

Mohinder rolls back on his heels to fix Sylar in a penetrating gaze. Sylar keeps his expression neutral with a faint smile and dark, dancing eyes. Unfolding his arms, Mohinder extends his left arm encouragingly towards the kitchen. “Be my guest.”

He watches Sylar grin as he walks to the kitchen and begins moving through it with an ease of comfort (collecting ingredients, pots, utensils from the cupboards and fridge) that should be out of place yet is at once extremely natural.

Mohinder regards the moving picture in front of him and considers that fact really _is_ stranger than fiction.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Heroes Slash Awards  
> **Nominated for Best Sylar (Gabriel) Characterization** (RUNNER UP)  
> **Nominated for Best Mohinder/Sylar Fic (G-PG13)** (RUNNER UP)


End file.
